


Hear Me

by BenevolentErrancy



Series: Fingers, Tongues, and Inkwells [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Deaf Characters - Freeform, M/M, Sign Language, mute character, some period-typical ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:59:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3484028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenevolentErrancy/pseuds/BenevolentErrancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire's life is a juxtaposition, full of sound and silence, wit and short-comings.  Filled with words and yet mute, Grantaire frequently finds himself as a spectator, unable or unwilling to join into the little dramas being acted out before his eyes.<br/>So when he meets a man with a voice like fire, it's hardly a surprise that he finds himself frozen, unable to look away from the blinding glory that is Enjolras.  Such is the way of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hear Me

**Author's Note:**

> This story tells the events of Speak To Me through Grantaire's perspective.  
> This story pretty much stands on its own, but it's wouldn't hurt to read Speak To Me first.
> 
> A warning though, the ableism in this piece is a bit heavier than in Speak To Me, just because Grantaire a) actively has to deal with 19th century assholes and b) has internalized some shit.

It was earlier that year, just after the new year, when the days were at their coldest and Grantaire's fingers at their most hindered, that he had found himself in a fire. ****

January sleet had been falling and the café had been packed with bodies; Grantaire had been slumped at a table in the corner, surrounded by a wine bottles and distant noise. The day had been wretched and came on the tail of an entire wretched week, and even the drink hadn't dispelled the melancholy so much as dragged him into a deeper, languishing pit. It had at least managed to make his hands too dumb to force this melancholy on the rest of the world though, so he had been content to sit and wallow and gaze out from behind the bottle's warped glass at the rest of the patrons that moved and chatted raucously, happily. In this stupor he had seen one man, heroically drunk, cast an arm across a laden table, sending a full wine bottle and candle both tumbling to the ground. The moment the flame had met the drink the fire had erupted. For a moment all Grantaire had known was light and screams, his sight and hearing blinded to all else, and even after his senses had adjusted he'd found himself unable to move from his slumped position, only capable of watching mutely as the fire shot up the table and across the floor, only growing and consuming, ferocious heat eating away every last bit of the wretched January chill even if that meant eating Grantaire along with it.

It had not been given the chance though. Some soul had, amid the chaos, noticed him and had hauled him clumsily out of the building.

Earlier that year, Grantaire had found himself sat in the freezing cold, drunk out of his mind and watching a fire blow out of the glass of the café he had been in moments earlier while people had run and screamed and organized themselves, desperately trying to form a bucket chain to salvage the building and its neighbours. Grantaire had said nothing that night, fingers numb and useless in the snow and tongue dumb in his mouth, and he never spoke of it to anyone else, simple held the horror and awe of the moment deep his chest.

Later, Grantaire would muse on how similar a moment it was when he first saw Enjolras, standing in the streets, gleaming like a flame that burnt the wick of its passion from both ends. It was his voice, his words, his overwhelming _belief_ that blinded Grantaire though, and from that moment on he was unable to look away.

-

After the street presentation where Grantaire had first caught sight of the golden youth whose name he had not yet learnt it took him several weeks to track him down again. It had taken some doing, but Grantaire stubbornly embraced his student life to its fullest and knew the best place for everything among Paris' nooks and crannies so he soon found himself slinking into the backroom of a café known as the Musain where a clandestine Republican's club was said to be held.

It was not hard to reason that these were disciples of the fiery god that Grantaire sought, their discussion a clear relation to the man's idealist rhetoric. It was ridiculous, so optimistic, so impossible, but Grantaire had always found comfort among what he couldn't have and the talk eased around him like the tide around beached drift wood. Bottle in hand, Grantaire slunk among their ranks, and settled down at a table in the corner, one that offered the best view of the room while being safely disconnected from the people in it. Briefly Grantaire did consider entering the fray of conversation, his fingers twitching towards the paper and pen tucked in his pocket, defences eased by the clear camaraderie of the group, but the urge was smothered when _he_ entered the room.

Grantaire knew it was him before he could even see his face through the bodies filling the room, knew it was him the moment his honeyed voice trickled between the gaps of other conversations. Such a voice, one which immediately captured the attention of everyone else in the room, one which could call the stars from the sky and light the spark of madness that was republicanism in the eyes of so many educated youths, would only make a mockery of the battered pen that even now brushed Grantaire's fingers. He lifted his hand from his pocket and returned it to his drink, sitting back and simply letting the passionate words flow over him.

This became a part of his routine – no, a part of his life. No matter what else may have passed during the week, he would always, without fail, find himself tucked away into the corner of the Musain's backroom to listen to the students' nobly play at revolutionary and soak in Enjolras' presence.

-

“Ah, you return another night, thank the heavens!”

Grantaire looked up from the happy haze that wine and Enjolras' speech had left him in to see a young man with a great smile and dedicatedly coiffed curls.

“I had meant to greet you last time, see, only you made a tidy escape after all was wrapped up and I never had the chance. My name is Courefyrac, always a pleasure to see a new face, citizen; might I encourage you to quit your lonely company of one and join myself and some comrades for a drink and discussion?”

The desire to take this Courfeyrac's hand was a physical ache in Grantaire's breast. To settle in the heart of such bright conversation, to give vent to the myriad of thoughts – contrary thoughts, perhaps, but thoughts begging to be spoken none the less – that had settled impatiently in his fingertips as the formal discussion of the evening had carried on was more than Grantaire could ask for.

And there was the problem. It was too much. It was a lovely dream, perhaps, but Grantaire could feel his head shaking before he had even consciously decided that he could absolutely not take Courfeyrac's up on his offer. This group valued rhetoric and discussion, intelligence and wittiness like nothing else, even just two days among them had shown Grantaire that, and that was something Grantaire could not give them. As a rule, he was not a shy man, willing to do what need be to make his voice, such as it was, heard, but he could not stand the thought of the men of this society realizing that they had a simplton in their midst, who could not vocalize a single thought in his head. He couldn't stand the thought of their welcoming, cheery faces taking the same countenance as his professors when they were finally confronted with Grantaire. He would be turned out. So he schooled his expression into lofty disinterest and angled himself away from Courfeyrac and back towards his bottle.

“Well...” said Courfeyrac, clearly thrown. “I would hate to deprive you of such fine company, I suppose. Good evening.”

He was bothered little after that.

-

Grantaire did not know whether to be furious or despondent so he chose instead to be drunk.

He had found himself removed from yet another lecture. This was a common struggle for him, what with his inability to make himself heard during roll call, and he had found that the professors were largely unsympathetic to his struggles. If anything they viewed him as dim, as people were wont to when they found he couldn't speak, and were eager for the excuse to remove him from their lessons. But this class was to focus on themes in the Homer's works, and Grantaire had been desperate to hear academic discussion on the topic, so he had refused to give his professor the excuse to have him dismissed.

When his name had been called, he had held aloft a large, stiff sheet of parchment he had gotten from the arts college with _JE SUIS PRÉSENT_ spelt out in flourishing, dramatic letters complete with arrows all spiralling down to point at himself beneath the sign. It had caused a great laugh, and Grantaire had been unable not to grin in amusement with the class at the professor's expression.

He had thought himself quite clever until he had been called to stay after class. Making his way to the professor's desk, Grantaire clutched at his paper and pen, like it were his sword and shield to defend himself against the world. He had only just been able to place them on the desk, to prepare to write out whatever sort of defence or excuse he needed, but the professor didn't give him that luxury. The paper was brushed to the floor and his pen was confiscated, for the world like he was a child caught with a bilboquet.

“I will not,” said the professor darkly, “accept this sort of buffoonery in my class. If you cannot take your studies seriously then you have no place here.”

A dozen sharp retorts sat on his fingertips, waiting to throw this man's words, his scorn back at him. But his pen sat in the fingers of another, so they were left unsaid, though that was perhaps for the best. The excuse he was equally wishing he could make – anything to be allowed to continue attending this class – was likewise silenced though.

_Crooked pointer and middle finger of the right hand, followed by brushing palms together_ : that's all it would take to apologize, that was it, but the gesture would be meaningless here.

“I will ask you not to return to this class. I advise you give some thought to how you wish to present yourself as a student in the future.”

Grantaire shook his head angry, slamming his hands down on the table. _This isn't fair, this isn't fair!_ He reached for his pen but the professor deftly slid it away into the drawer of his desk. Grantaire brought his palm down onto to the desk top again, and in desperation pulled his well-worn copy of the _Iliad_ , casting it open and gesturing as meaningfully as he could at the much thumbed pages, at the inked in notations he had made while reading it time and again. _I am smart, I am a student, please let me attend._ He gestured to himself, to his chest, his heart, and towards the book. _I love this work, I love this writer, please let me learn more about him._

“M. Grantaire,” said the professor wearily, “this is not the place for you. Now please, leave.”

Furious, Grantaire kicked the leg of the desk and when the man shouted – ha, let him yell, see how much better a shouter Grantaire is even with his tongue silenced – Grantaire made a crude gesture that required no knowledge of linguistic hand signing to understand. In a storm he left the lecture hall. He would never be allowed back in there. How long until the university itself would no longer tolerate his presence despite his family's money?

He left campus from there and walked until he came to a secluded wineshop he frequented, one which knew him well enough not to wait for him to try to mime out his request and instead gave him a bottle of his customary wine choice. In return Grantaire gave the serving girl playful winks and appreciative nods that made her, accustom as she was to Grantaire, laugh and swat at him before directing him to an open seat. Curling up, he opened the _Iliad_ and drank until the text waved on the page and he realized that a meeting of the ABC Society would be starting soon. The promise of a secluded corner, further wine, and Enjolras' golden voice wrapping around him like a blanket was enough to stir him from his seat. He stopped in his room only briefly to cast his school bag and the book in, and carried on; he realized he had forgotten to get a new pen and paper from his room only after he had entered the Musain and was miserably trying to make it clear to the bar tender that he wanted more wine. In the end the server had grown tired of him and shooed him away without so much as a cup, the philistine. Such was this day. He made his way to the back, moved silently among the people already gathered, and took his usual seat, letting himself and his problems fade to nothing among the words.

The meeting progressed and soon Enjolras had finished his piece, at which point Grantaire's attention wavered. The ideals of the group were radical and ludicrous and ergo impossible, so they did little to fully hold his attention (though little fully held his attention these days, so it was perhaps not wholly their fault) but he found himself strangely comfortable to stay hidden away among them. Grantaire had long ago grown use to being left as a rock among a flow of conversation; he often faded into the back and while it stung at times it also gave him a chance to hear conversations that many others weren't privy too – and this was a pleasant one to be in the midst of. He agreed with little, scorned much, but the warmth of the room was welcoming and their leader...

Grantaire would not have come meeting after meeting with such devotion had it not been for him. He seemed to personify everything that Grantaire lacked: he was straight, tall, and beautiful in a way that Grantaire would never be, he was confident and educated, a student by more than name, and he spoke with a passion that Grantaire's very nature wished to curl around. He had belief that structured him where Grantaire's uncertainty and doubt left him feeling driftless. He didn't believe in this youth's ideals, didn't believe in his ability to enact the change he spoke so passionately about, but he was happy to moor himself to the pillar that was his immovable passion for an hour or two.

And of course his voice.

It was like nothing Grantaire had ever heard, it was filled with that passion, it was filled with fire, it was something that the gods themselves would have had to have crafted and gifted him, for surely no mortal could inspire such soul with mere words. Beneath the adoration, Grantaire was self-aware enough to taste the bitter tang of jealously; where this man could stand and preach Grantaire could only wallow and listen. He was a toad in the swamp of his own unvoiced thoughts, staring up at the birds as they soar the heavens.

It was, he realized suddenly, a voice which was now speaking directly to him. Grantaire startled out of his meandering thoughts to find the golden youth, the speaker of gods, the fiery archangel of men standing directly before him, _speaking to him alone_. Grantaire could feel the heat filling his cheeks, flustered at the attention, anxious over how to proceed.

“I've come to realize you've been here quite regularly for the past few weeks,” the youth said, lifting a hand in greeting, “and yet I'm afraid I don't even know your name. I am Enjolras.”

_Enjolras_. Grantaire knew this, of course, had heard others speak his name, but there was a world of difference between knowing the name and being given it. And of being asked his own.

He was being asked his own, he was being asked to speak, he could not speak. Panic was rising. Why now, what sort of cruel trick was this, to be addressed from on high and to have no choice but to spurn the attentions? He wished to gasp and gag out words, wished that this was like a true tale of gods and mortals because if it was he would find his voice now, for this. But this was Grantaire's life and there was nothing magical about it.

Even though he knew it was pointless, he patted down his pockets frantically, praying he had left a leaf of paper, a scrap of charcoal, _anything_ on his person, but of course he hadn't, they were safely locked away in his rooms. He was mute. Truly mute, and by his own carelessness.

And because of his actions, his hands were all he had left. Left with no other options he simply reached out for the hand that the man had proffered and which had hung uselessly in the air for too long now, and gave it a shake.

“If I might be so bold to ask your name, Monsieur?”

The youth – Enjolras – was mad, Grantaire knew it. He was accustom to it. His fingers itched to tell Enjolras why he refused to speak to him, to beg forgiveness, to offer excuses, but the fluttering of his hands would mean nothing under Enjolras' judgemental gaze. Even if he didn't use sign, he might still get a crude point across though. He could mime his muteness, flap his mouth like a useless hinge, as he had countless times, he could make himself understood. But why bother? Why show himself to be an imbecile that could only speak when waving his hands like a child and send Enjolras away with absolutely no illusions to his uselessness?

The anger from earlier rose up through the comfortable apathy that alcohol brought. Why should he be constantly reduced to something lesser? Why should he have to gape his mouth dumbly like a fish to express that he was not clever enough to make it form words? Why was he always the one that must be degraded?

So he didn't. In a pique of hurt and stubbornness, he refused to have his voice further stolen. He gave a shrug, lofty and indifferent as if he couldn't be bothered by this angel's blazing words, and then Grantaire spoke to Enjolras plainly: he raised his hands, pointer and middle finger intertwined to form an R and pressed it to his cheek – _Grantaire_. Enjolras wanted his name, he had received it. If he could not understand it, well, that was no concern of Grantaire's.

“What's that suppose to mean?” Enjolras snapped, only angered further by Grantaire's refusal to speak to him.

Grantaire only shrugged. He had dug this hole for himself, he would accept it. He belonged in its depths and shadows in any case; with luck the great leader would feel sufficiently slighted to not trouble Grantaire further, would never again remind him of the discrepancy between them.

“Say something!” Enjolras demanded, properly enraged.

Resignedly, Grantaire lowered his head into his crossed arms. He had said all he could. He had kept what scraps of dignity he had and could give no more. Finally, in a huff, Enjolras turned and marched off, leaving Grantaire with immediate relief and regret. Perhaps he should have stuck out his tongue like a dog to show there were no words hidden on it, should have waved his hands in pantomime, should have given some indication, rather than leave himself with the sick feeling that now curdled in his stomach. But would the feeling have been any different, had he degraded himself to that point, yet again, and before such a figure? No, better the annoyance.

(“I think he might be simple,” he heard them say whe Enjolras rejoined the group.)

Well let him be annoyed, Grantaire thought finally, with some vindictiveness. Grantaire's existence was a state of annoyance, he lived jilted by a world that allowed him only to listen in and denied him participation. He was the outside observer, the peanut gallery; in the time of great, open theatre he would have been the cur standing before the stage, pressed from all sides, unheard above jeers, left only to stare up and be dazzled by the performers on the stage.

(“He has no place here,” Enjolras said in response.)

He pressed his head further into his arms, suddenly feeling suffocated by the conversations happening around him. His fingers longed to speak, to truly speak. He found himself wondering where Bertrand would be at this time of day and if he couldn't convince him to come out drinking, though Bertrand shied away from the excess that Grantaire indulged in. Grantaire was poor company that drunk in any case, his signs became sloppy and little more than the primitive gestures that others – that Enjolras now, surely – understood them to be.

Yes, either the company of those likewise robbed of a voice or of a substance that could further rob him of sense felt very attractive at the moment, and he made the swift decision to take his leave to seek out one or the other.

-

_To go out to drink after having been out to drink is a good, if slow, way to kill yourself, my friend,_ said Bertrand, his hands moving with the elegance of a native speaker, or as near as it tended to come.

As Grantaire has predicted his own signs were soppy with alcohol. _To kill my body or my soul?_ He returns wryly, taking another drink.

He had intended to seek out Bertrand alone and leave drink for the evening, but had wound up finding him and two others at La Roux, a charming café just outside the Latin Quarter, and where there was a café there was alcohol and it seemed a shame, at that moment, to deprive it of his company. So he was now slumped between three acquaintances, lamenting miserably. They, much more sober than he, at least seemed amused rather than frustrated, and they made no secret of it – the deaf, Grantaire found, were not particularly tactful folk.

_Well, you have made no secret of the state of your soul,_ signed Wattier. _If it is still hanging on I can't see there being much left that could do it harm._

_That depends, have you smelt the absinthe he's ordered? The fumes alone could fall a lesser man,_ signed Lafon, smile broad with humour.

_Ah, no,_ returned Grantaire, though he didn't even remember turning to absinthe rather than wine. _The trick, see, is to be the least one can possible be. The lower one starts the less distance there is to fall. I’d rather roll onto my back, drunk and stupefied, than fall from the Heavens with wax wings_.

_If you start moaning of the Sun and Stars and however else you call this fellow of yours I shall need some of your drink,_ said Lafon dryly, taking a sip of his own wine.

Wattier laughed out loud at this, his tone delighted and unmodulated; it was a wonderful sound and though Lafon couldn't hear it he grinned all the broader at the way Wattier's face curled in laughter. The two began speaking – and Grantaire suspected that it was probably at his expense – but he turned away from them when Bertrand touched his arm.

_But seriously, my friend, have things gone poorly? You seem more melancholic than usual_.

Grantaire had half a mind to tell Bertrand of his troubles but even drunk he had the sense to guard his words. Because to abuse himself was one thing, but there was little he could say that could not likewise be applied to his friends and the thought of accidentally speaking ill of them made him baulk. So he explained simply that his muteness had been exposed and taken poorly among the members of the group he had been frequenting. A slight exaggeration but Grantaire liked to think a forgivable one. It was near enough the truth.

_But the truly miserable thing,_ said Grantaire, _is that I know I'll still return next week_. He could no longer look away and would be devoured wholly.

-

For a while things carried on much as they had. No one addressed Grantaire again after that, not even to mock or demand he leave, though he did receive cool glances from Enjolras more frequently than he had. It was bearable. He held onto a couple courses at the university that would humour him and he spent what time he wasn't there in the library wandering Paris, playing billiards, dancing, boxing and partaking in whatever else there was to amuse a young man of independent means. It changed, however, just as the warmer weather began to approach.

Grantaire was spending his afternoon outside among some agreeable textile-workers he had endeared himself to some months back. It was a strange sort of acquaintance since he could not speak aloud or by sign to them and many of them could not read, but it worked well enough, founded as it was largely around a mutual love of dominoes. And M. Foucault was among their numbers today which made any interactions with them all the more amusing, since Foucault read well and must surely have been a Thespian in another life because he made it his mission to read Grantaire's transcriptions as dramatically and ridiculously as possible. Grantaire stood now, attempting to act out the words as Foucault read them, making ridiculously exaggerated gestures with his mouth and arms and rendering the rather snide point he had written all the more ludicrous (and yet, he liked to think, all the more pertinent. He felt between his own lumbering acting and the deep, frumpy voice that Foucault affected they managed a jolly good character of a certain Pear Grantaire had had the mind to abuse in his writing.)

He had been so caught up among the good nature of the group that he was entirely surprised to be reminded that they were not, in fact, contained and could be heard and seen by any who passed. He was badly startled when a different voice laughed loudly behind him.

Specifically, the problem wasn’t that it was an _unfamiliar_ voice, because it most horrifically wasn't, but more that it did not belong to a textile-worker.

Grantaire spun on the spot and was surprised to be confronted by one of the ABC members, a rosy-faced (and rosy-nosed) boy with a cane who Grantaire had the vague notion might be a medical student. He tended to spend most of the evening around a bald fellow that Grantaire had heard go by no less than three different names, and the two tended to have light-hearted, amusing conversations that Grantaire was partial to listening in on.

“Oh, I've seen you before, haven't I?” said the possible medical student.

Grantaire gave a non-committal shrug and tried to sink back to the seat he had been occupying before. He prayed the textile-workers would follow his lead and return to their games and, hopefully, encourage the boy to leave.

Foucault was looking between the two though, clearly intrigued. “And who are you, lad?” he asked. “It's not often that Grantaire is rendered speechless, if you'll excuse the expression.”

“Oh, is your name Grantaire?” said the boy cheerfully. “See, because I'm certain I've seen you. You have been attending some of our, ah, evening meetings, right? I'm Joly.”

He extended a hand and Grantaire accepted that his fate was doomed to repeat and he gave it a miserable little shake.

“But you know,” said Joly, “I'm not sure I've heard you speak! You seem fun, you should come sit with us next time! Laigle and I have the fun table.” Joly gave his nose a tap with the cane, carrying the over-all air that he was passing on a great secret.

Grantaire nodded, just wishing that Joly would _leave_.

“Ah!” said Foucault. “Apologies, I still have your paper.” As if that was all that was keeping Grantaire from trying to engage with this too eager revolutionary.

He had no choice though but to take the paper back when Foucault passed it to him. Joly glanced at it.

“Oh, that speech just now, did you write it?” he asked. “Or were you just acting it out.”

Grantaire gave another indefinite shrug, but when Joly, with a sort of earnest interest that was rather unnerving to have directed towards him, refused to leave he gave in and took out his pen.

_Yes_ , he wrote, beneath the earlier rant that Foucault had been reading, _I do in fact play more than the role of dancing animal, though I like to think I play that beautiful. I did indeed write what you just heard; truly, I am an entire circus rolled in one, a first rate spectacle. But like any good circus I naturally have a Monsieur Loyal to speak and direct, and filling that role is the kind M. Foucault who you see over there._

Grantaire braced himself as Joly opens his mouth to speak – and let it be known, Grantaire had heard ever iteration of what was next to come and he liked very few of them – but instead Joly paused and squinted back at the page. What he actually said was:

“Wait, is that meant to be a pun?”

Grantaire grins and decides then and there that he was keeping this one, Enjolras be damned.

-

He had to wonder, after that, why he hadn't bothered to speak to the men of the ABC sooner. Over the next couple meetings Joly cheerfully and determinedly sought him out at his table to join him, and on the second occasion gestured for his bald friend – a M. Laigle-Lesgle-and-Bossuet (if Grantaire was a circus then M. Bossuet seemed determined to become half of Paris) – to join them. Both were such amusing, good-natured fellows that Grantaire found a bubble of warmth growing in him each time they met. He had always enjoyed the meetings but it had been in a pensive, melancholic way; he could not attribute such Romantic notions to it now, he was laughing entirely too much for that.

(And upon writing that thought he was then soon introduced to a M. Jean Prouvaire, the resident Romantic. He was a delightfully timid creature, who seemed quite flustered initially by Grantaire's paper-and-ink tongue, seemingly concerned about somehow causing offense, but who eased considerably once he found out that Grantaire was well-read in poetry.)

It was the fourth meeting since he and Joly had been properly introduced that Grantaire was once again confronted directly by the golden leader. It came when Grantaire was teasing Joly. He always signed his written notes with his rebus, an R, because when multiple people were writing messages on the same page, as sometimes came to pass when he was speaking with his friends who were likewise mute, or deaf and not yet well-versed in sign, it paid to be able to differentiate who had written what at a glance. Yet Joly had only just now figured out the pun, after being driven wild by it for the past week, and he was elated, laughing loudly in delight.

Grantaire’s amusement at Joly’s glee was dampened immediately though, for Joly chose that moment to look up and take notice of Enjolras, call him over. Intimidation and old hurt prickled and Grantaire attempted to disappear into the back of the chair while Joly explained the joke to Enjolras.

“Here, see this,” he said, using Grantaire’s pen to draw a large R on the page through which Grantaire had been speaking. “Grantaire has been signing himself in such a manner for the past week and I swear I have spent nearly as long trying to figure out why. It just struck me today, see if you can't get it, it's a wonderful trick–”

“I'm sorry, who are we talking about?” Enjolras asked then.

  
“...Grantaire?” Joly repeated. And bless his soul, he looked confused, for all like Enjolras didn't have reason to be petty. Still, Joly pressed on, giving Grantaire a little, demonstrative shake. “This Grantaire?”  
  
“I see,” said Enjolras coolly. “We hadn't been properly introduced.”

Grantaire's temper flared; what right did he have? He snatched his pen back from Joly and dragged a paper towards himself – very well, if Enjolras dared tempt his voice, let him have it and suffer the consequences.

He wrote: _I am not actually an idiot. Merely dumb, ha ha. I can hear you perfectly fine, so if you wish to continue speculating about my questionable intellect you may want to do it in a more modulated tone._

_As it is though, I hardly think it is my intellect that should be called into question, seeing how I at least realize that the prospect of successfully directing Parisians towards anything unknown is about as likely as being able to successfully herd cats, never mind hoping that the direction you send them in might lead to Meaningful Change. At least a cat may be encouraged with adequate motivation: fresh fish, for example, or the promise of shedding on a fellow’s new coat; whereas Parisians are attracted by little except spectacle and an easy sous. An early grave offers little of either. I would go so far as to say that if you possibly expect something as fanciful as a Revolution to be carried out you would have better luck making sure you and your men are dressed in your best suits in the interest of attracting an army of felines feeling oppressed by the monarchy. It would be more fruitful than hoping the same would come from « The People », as you call them._

– _R_

With more force than necessary Grantaire shoved it into Enjolras hands and watched him as he read. Pleasure and frustration alike alighted in his chest when Enjolras gaped. Gaped like he could truly not believe Grantaire so capable. As soon as Enjolras' eyes quit scanning the page Grantaire snatched it back, for now that he was speaking him mind he couldn't seem to still his hands.

_And I hardly had a pen the night you spoke to me, did I? Unless you had hoped I would take a Romantic approach and write my name in blood or some such thing I didn't exactly have many outlets. Regardless, I didn't fail to introduce myself,_ _ you _ _simply failed to adequately listen. For what it's worth though, my name is Grantaire.  
– R_

If the look on Enjolras' face was anything to go by, Grantaire would have expected they were seconds away from blows – he had witnessed barfights start over lesser slights and calmer expressions. But Joly, bless his soul, spoke up just then, cheerfully pointing to the rebus and saying “See? It's a  _grand R_. Grantaire. Get it?”

-

A part of Grantaire assumed that he would return to his old ways after that encounter, but the next meeting Grantaire found himself immediately seeking Joly out instead of returning to his lone table, placing himself among the chattering students for the world as if he belonged among them. The worst was over, surely. The great Apollo had seen the extent of his impairment and vitriol and would make of it what he would; he had already stuck his hand into the flame, all the remained was to heal from it, so what did it matter now what these schoolboys thought of him? He approached them now as he would any other acquaintances he made on the streets and in the cafés: brazen and bawdy.

His presence was initially met with some confusion, but Bossuet seemed thrilled and Joly happily introduced him to the fellows he sat among. That was how Grantaire finally made the acquaintance of Bahorel, Feuilly, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac. And, emboldened by the great reveal of his artificial tongue and overwhelming tolerance of students, Grantaire found himself more and more outspoken. No longer did he simply stew on Enjolras' words, but showed his commentary to others, at first simply sliding them across the table to Joly or Jehan, who giggled incessantly at them, but soon progressing beyond even that.

He demanded Enjolras' time and consideration. Partially because his very nature was one of disruption, but also because he now had the burning need to be seen as an intellectual equal by this man. He made the noises his could, snapping his fingers loudly or clucking his tongue, to call attention onto himself, and showed off his words, either by making Enjolras read them – a difficult endeavour, considering the size of his writing and the distance between them – or by passing them to others to have them read. (Let it be known that none passed Foucault's ability, but the enthusiasm that Bahorel took to delivering the opposing arguments did place him in a near second.)

But still, Grantaire never quite forgot that his place was not truly among the student revolutionaries. Even if he ventured from his shadowed corner seat to creep closer to the light, his was a tolerated presence, a dissenter, a spectacle. While amazed that Enjolras had not yet sent him on his way, he still caught pitying looks sent his way by the great orator which only stirred Grantaire's irritation further. Better hate than pity; he soothed himself by launching, quite literally at times, still more arguments towards Enjolras and watching the pity be drowned by exasperation. When they fought, truly fought, it was vicious and messy and Grantaire revelled in them as much as he loathed them and the ache they left in their wake.

To forget this fact though, that he was not truly a part of this group, was to court a bigger hurt still though. He was reminded of this fact best, perhaps, when, after a long, heated discussion, Enjolras called for his lieutenants to stay back. Grantaire felt his heart sink as his companions stood to move closer the head table as the other, more nomadic members of the club filtered out. And Grantaire was left alone in his seat. Ever the outsider. With grim determination not to be touched so deeply by something he had known all his life, he stood, clasped Jehan on the shoulder and bid him to meet him at the Corinth once they had concluded their meeting, and from there quit the room, making for the wineshop as quickly as he could without blatantly running.

And he quite happily found his drink, partaking deeply while he waited for Prouvaire to join him. Perhaps he should have suggested Bahorel join them as well – for all Jehan was pleasant company who took gamely to writing rather than speaking, he was a quiet sort and, in hindsight, would not be the sort of company Grantaire needed to beat back his feelings. He was sketching the serving girl and musing on whether or not he should double back and try to grab Bahorel, or even Joly or Bossuet, as the meeting let out, when a voice that was certainly not Prouvaire's called out to him.

His head snapped up and he found himself facing down an irate looking Enjolras. He didn't have the faintest idea what he could have done.

Well, Enjolras never let Grantaire stew on his misdeeds for long. “You left.”

Grantaire raised a brow at Enjolras’ accusatory tone. Of course. Enjolras had quite explicitly _told him to leave_ , if anything Grantaire should be getting praised for going promptly and not being a disruption.

Enjolras was scowling though. “I told you plainly to stay.”

Grantaire wanted to argue – because when did he not want to argue with Enjolras? – but he found his throat was getting tight and his hands were clenching together, feeling overcoming him. Still, he daren’t hope and affected an accustomed look of skepticism.

“I  _did_. I called for my lieutenants to stay, don't act like that gives you an excuse to sneak out with the crowd.”  
  
But… surely Enjolras was implying what Grantaire thought he was – surely it was only wishful thinking on his part. Surely…  
  
“Don't,” Enjolras warned. “If you think for a moment you can pretend that you are not included among our ranks... Courfeyrac alone would have my neck if it were suggested, never mind Joly or Bossuet or Bahorel. No one would hear it suggested that you don't belong with us, even if you insist on setting yourself apart with your frankly ridiculous beliefs. As Combeferre said, we cannot dictate the thoughts shared within our group or we are no better than those we oppose.”

Emotion flushed through Grantaire, pleasure like he hadn’t felt in a long time. It wasn’t the feeling of spending an evening drinking with friends or even of the easy comfort he found among Bertrand and his company. It was something much more unexpected, something sharp and burning that made his cheeks redden. He had to say something now though, he couldn’t stay silent after such a declaration from Enjolras; surely he deserved supplication, veneration, Grantaire’s fingers reached for his pen, intending homage to flow, to give some indication of what such a thing meant to him.

But nothing came out right. He smudged the ink and chose too pale of words, too feeble a declaration, or else it was pure nonsense that flowed from his pen, in the image of Grantaire’s flush rather than his appreciation. And yet Enjolras stayed patient throughout, to Grantaire’s frustration. A part of his kept waiting for him to walk out, to grow fed up with Grantaire’s fumbling as everyone did, sooner or later. He waited for Enjolras to make an assumption, put words in his mouth, but Enjolras simply… sat.

Fed up, impatience inflamed, Grantaire threw his pen to the table and tossed the ruined page into the fire.

“Take your time,” said Enjolras, as if this were the most natural of responses.

_Stop being so damn reasonable,_ Grantaire scrawled irritably.

He pondered over a new, blank page, but the expanse was intimidating and he found himself reluctant to clutter its unblemished horizons. So he ultimately gave up and wrote:  _I won't make the mistake of leaving before my time again._

And, after a moment’s hesitation:  _Thank you._  

And, because these words felt too small still to carry the weight Grantaire placed on them, he gave a final dash with his pen, underlining the words. _Thank you._

Enjolras seemed to understand what Grantaire meant, because he simply said, “I'm glad to hear it. I'll see you on Thursday.”

Grantaire watched Enjolras leave before pressing his red face into his hands, a smile so broad it hurt refusing to leave his face.

-

Interactions with Enjolras became increasingly easy, and increasingly informal. For all their time spent debating, they spent more time still just… talking. About what Grantaire wasn’t always certain, but it was with an ease he rarely found among people who didn’t know sign. That's not to say an ease at conversing itself, because he normally had little problem with picking up acquaintances and passing friends, but an ease at comprehension. As he had that night in the Corinth, Enjolras seemed to possess a knack for interpreting even the words Grantaire didn’t right and seemed genuinely interested in taking the time to learn more and more how to communicate with him.

Not to say the others didn’t! He revelled in the poetic discussions with Jehan, and the body-language-heavy evenings with Bahorel, the technicality with which Feuilly approached his written speech, and the comfortable familiarity that came from the years he had known Joly and Bossuet, but the sure intensity with which Enjolras would scrutinize his face while he spoke, pen flying in his hand and expression contorting to carry a message words hadn’t be sufficient to hold, left him with a deep warmth.

Bearing this in mind, he really shouldn’t have been so surprised then when, one evening, Enjolras delved deeper. It was late, after an exhaustive demonstration. The others were planning to go see a play, but Grantaire rued the thought of straining his eyes to write in the dim light of the theatre and his hands were sore from being shoved between wild bodies, so he chose to stay back with Enjolras, who was busy writing in the Musain’s backroom. Grantaire had thought to be silent company, perhaps to read some more of the _Illiad_ , which he had found himself having no time to read since getting swept up in the momentum that was the ABC Society, and so was rather surprised to find himself being addressed before long.

“When you get too tired to write,” Enjolras asked, voice loud in the silence, “how do you communicate with people? Are you forced to stay silent until you feel better? What happens on evenings like when we met for the first time and you don't have pen or paper? ...You don't have to answer, I realize it's counter-intuitive to you leaving our friends to avoid needing to tal– write.”

Grantaire considered Enjolras and just what answer he would give. Most people seemed surprised to learn he could “talk” at all, even with paper, never mind suggesting he could do more. The fears he had held that first night when Enjolras had spoken to him seemed distant and comical now in this intimate setting, and yet he was still reserved about revealing his hand, so to speak.

He chose to approach cautiously and wrote,  _When I want to talk, and don't or can't write, I go talk to other people._

Enjolras' brow knit. “Who would you go to talk to if you can't speak or write?”

_People who don't need a voice or pen to speak._

“I wasn't looking for a riddle,” said Enjolras, sounding irritable again.

Grantaire sighed to himself. Of course it didn’t take much, to suggest that a person could communicate without need of tongue or pen was surely a farcical one to Enjolras, who used both like keen-edged swords. What use had he for Grantaire’s methods? And yet, he now felt resigned and pressed onwards.

_You'll probably think it sounds ridiculous._

“Then I'll be returning the favour, since you seem to find most of what we talk about ridiculous and sit through it anyway.”

The easy, teasing tone was what convinced Grantaire. It wasn’t cruel, but an ultimate expression of friendship, coming from the often severe young man. He pushed back his chair and _spoke_ , properly.

Right fist balled, he knocked it twice against his chest before spraying his fingers across it, as if to calm a racing heart, while his face grimaced and turned away slightly: _I was so afraid._ And perhaps he was giving in somewhat to melodrama but it was honest, and in this moment he would allow himself honesty. _I was terrified to show you this, to show anyone who doesn't understand already. It's one thing to write instead of talk, that exposes one to enough speculation as it is, but to try to convey that speaking with your body and being an intelligent human being are not mutually exclusive? A daunting task I do not enjoy._

_I am mute. I was born mute, I have never spoken so much as a word but can understand the words of others. And yet, because I am nothing if not a contrary being, I speak continuously and it is everyone else who is incapable of understanding. This is a language of which I am immensely proud but of which I am simultaneously ashamed._ He revelled in the sign for that: hand open and fingers pressed together, he started with them pointed against his chest and dragged his hand up so the back of it rubbed against his cheek. He put force into it, more than necessary, tried to make it look grotesque and then brought his hand arching around so he could press a single finger, his pointer, to his chest, like an arrow set to hit its march, a personal condemnation. He was not proud of his shame, it disgusted him, he hated that he could be made to feel so repulsed by a language he knew to be so beautiful. He continued with, _Among others who know it, I adore it; I adore them and the way they speak it and the way it allows me to be understood without staining my fingers and filling my pockets with paper. And yet I stand before you now and you can't understand a word. Before your beautiful, ringing voice that the entire world can hear and be moved by this feels so pale and insufficient._

When he was finished he tried to divine some meaning from Enjolras' expression, but it's wide-eyed scrutiny gave away nothing. Was he unsettled? Did he think Grantaire mad? Was he as offended as Grantaire's parents had been when he had first shown them what they called “an uncivilized display”.

Reaching for a sheet of paper, Grantaire wrote, _We speak with our bodies. Our hands and faces._

And Enjolras, after reading that, looked Grantaire straight in the eye and said, “That's amazing!”

Grantaire could feel the blush rising in his cheek, and unspeakable relief and joy blossoming in his chest. He found himself further explaining sign language to Enjolras, at Enjolras' own, fascinated bequest and not in a desperate bid to excuse it; it was an act of reverence, a chance to share something beautiful with someone who, though ignorant, perhaps also saw the beauty of it, rather than one of shame or guilt.

As the evening wound down though Enjolras suddenly expressed interest in _learning_ it, and Grantaire had to stubbornly clamp down on any feelings that that might evoke. It was too much to ask him to learn another language for him, and too much to hope that this wasn't some passing fancy, brought on by not understanding the complexity that sign language was. Regardless, he did promise to introduce Enjolras to a friend of his who likewise spoke sign and tried not to be too moved by the passionate conviction with which Enjolras expressed his interest.

-

_So,_ signed Bertrand gleefully, _I have been granted the honour of meeting Enjolras._ Here he used the name-sign that had been decided for Enjolras: a twinkle of fingers, the sign for sparkles, being run in a fluid motion along the side of the head, referencing hair. This was perhaps a good indication that Grantaire's may possibly wax poetic to his friends a little to often and on slightly too fixed a topic.

_I appreciate you agreeing to... he seemed unaccountably keen on it,_ Grantaire signed back in an attempt to brush it off. Bertrand did not permit it.

_Indeed, strange to want to meet the friends of a friend. Queer even. I wouldn't trust this fellow, he can only have nefarious intentions._

Grantaire chose not to mention just how close Bertrand actually was on that account; he didn't talk politics with this group of friends. The community that spoke sign language in Paris, largely deaf, was small enough that he wasn't keen on being ostracised for being a radical.

_Still, if he does anything particularly stupid – and this is a man who speaks several steps ahead of any common sense, see – allow me to apologize in advance_ , said Grantaire with a grimace. So far Enjolras had been nothing but accepting but still...

_I have had more than enough exposure to hearing folk to have a thick skin for stupid, never fear,_ replied Bertrand dryly. _But disregarding that, please, you must prepare me in advance: is the hair of Enjolras_ (accented by a very overly dramatic sweep of Enjolras' name-sign) _as glorious as it has been told in legend? Will my mortal eyes be able to withstand its full force?_

Grantaire started to sign “sometimes I'm not so sure myself” but at that moment he noticed said head of hair among the crowd and gave a broad wave, signalling their location to Enjolras.

“Hello,” Enjolras started to say, and then Grantaire was treated to the rare experience of watching Enjolras stumble over his words and come up short, as he realized he wouldn't be able to speak so easily among this company. Grantaire almost laughed; Bertrand was clearly just as amused, though he kept it tamped down. Laughing at someone before even being acquainted might arguably be considered rather rude.

Dipping his pen into his inkwell, Grantaire wrote, _This is Bertrand_. _Bertrand, this is Enjolras._

Bertrand immediately turned to him, grin devilishly. _So this is your “angel”. You don't do things remotely by half, do you? And you laughed at the sparkles, they were well earned! Though you have promised me a great orator and so far I am rather underwhelmed._

Whipping his hand in front of his face, Grantaire brought his fingers down to meet his thumb in a sharp warning: _shut up_. Never mind that Enjolras couldn't understand a word of it, this was not a discussion they were having right now.

Bertrand gave Grantaire an unrepentant smile before he turned back to Enjolras and drew his pen from his pocket and wrote a greeting out for him; Grantaire meanwhile ordered a bottle of wine. If this was at all indicative of the rest of the meeting Grantaire would need some fortification.

As it happened though, the lunch was incredibly enjoyable. With haphazard abandon two pens were passed among the three of them and paper was used and filled and discarded, since written French was the only language all three of them shared. Bertrand was a perpetually pleasant person, teasing and blunt at times, but compassionate to a fault and his easily accepting soul found a good friend with Enjolras'; it facilitated the conversation wonderfully and played the perfect buffer between Enjolras and Grantaire, always softening the discussion before natures could be inflamed.

When Enjolras remarked again on his interest to learn sign language though Grantaire swore he felt his heart stop and had to reread Enjolras' words a couple times to make sure he had seen them correctly. Surely he wasn't _still_ going to play at this?

_I would be pleased to teach you, if you are willing to commit the time,_ wrote Bertrand before Grantaire could make any move to intercept. _Do not assume it is simple just because to you it may look so, it is complex and require dedication. I will not do so if you are going to treat it as a game or get frustrated because it is not the easy thing you incorrectly assumed it to be._

Grantaire's head bounced back to Enjolras as if he were watching a tennis match, waiting for the ball to drop. Surely this brusque warning would be enough to make Enjolras realize he was being rash and unreasonable.

But while Enjolras did look chastened he wrote, _I understand, of course, I didn't mean any offence, if offence I gave. I admit I am a busy person, but if you find it acceptable, I can surely give at least a few hours ever week to you. And of course, I would appropriately recompense you for the lessons. This is by no means a game to me._

And as briskly as it had begun, the transaction was wrapped up with a speed that left Grantaire's head spinning, with Bertrand and Enjolras agreeing on a time to meet and sort out further details. It left Grantaire antsy and distracted for the rest of the meal. While he still participated in the discussion, he found himself furtively writing on his own sheet of paper, trying to find the words that would make Enjolras see that he didn't need to continue this farce for Grantaire's sake.

When the meet had come to a close and they were to part ways, Grantaire shoved his final draft into Enjolras' hands and marched sharply off. For while the fantasy of being able to speak to Enjolras properly was an enticing one, it was not one Grantaire could stand to indulge in only to be disappointed when it inevitably failed to pan out.

-

When Enjolras cornered Grantaire at the next meeting of the ABC Society he was told off severely for thinking that he didn't deserve to have his voice heard and that Enjolras couldn't want to learn _how_ to do so for no reason other than to be better able to converse with a friend. It was quite an inspired speech and it left Grantaire quailing and blushing in turn, feeling quite undecided on the matter afterwards. He still refused to hope that Enjolras would see it through – he was a revolutionary and a student beside, what time did he have to learn a superfluous language? – but he warmed more than ever to Enjolras' company. It was becoming increasingly easy to see him as a friend, not only an acquaintance or a leader or an idol. It was also interesting to have Enjolras known in his other circle of friends, interesting to hear Bertrand mention Enjolras offhandedly during a conversation (though Lafon and Wattier were both irked that Bertrand had apparently been granted permission to meet the fabled Enjolras and they had not been. Grantaire was beginning to suspect me may have to suggest a more extended lunch at some later date).

Still, despite being peripherally aware that Enjolras was, indeed, pursuing his misguided notion he was taken completely by surprise by the fact one particularly busy evening at the Musain. After fifteen minutes of frustrating conversation Grantaire finally gave up and told Enjolras that it was too loud and that he couldn't hear him worth a damn. In turn, Enjolras responded, like it was the most natural thing in the world, _Is this better?_ In sign language.

The accent was atrocious, he forgot entirely to lower his brow to express the question, but Grantaire smiled so broad it _hurt_. It was only through serious self-control that Grantaire convinced himself not to do something regrettable, like cry, or hug him.

The discussion in sign didn't last long, Enjolras was still much too much of a novice to manage much, but it left something warm and bright in Grantaire' chest nonetheless.

-

Enjolras only improved, for all he often seemed frustrated by the fact that he didn't yet know every single word, phrase, and grammatical rule there was to know. He was not a man who did things in part. His speech was still heavily accented and stilted – he always held himself too stiffly when he spoke, he didn't allow for the fluidity, the drama that sign language demanded – but the degree to which he was coming to understand Grantaire was wondrous. Over time Grantaire was no longer required to lob paper projectiles at Enjolras' head for attention, but could simply stand and sign, and trust Enjolras to summarize his point for the others and respond. (The first time Grantaire introduced the larger group to sign language had been nerve-whacking to the extreme in the build up, and almost disappointing in how anticlimactic it was after the reveal. They were intrigued by it and brought up no objection or condescension; it was accepted into meetings as easily as he had been accepted to their table all those months ago.) There was still awkwardness since Enjolras was the only one that understood his signs at meetings and more often than not Grantaire chose to write instead since then it didn't hinge of Enjolras being near, but once he and Enjolras were alone, having private discussions, it was everything Grantaire had never dared dream.

And the time they spent alone in each other's company only increased as well. It was now not unusual for Grantaire to find himself at Enjolras' apartment after hours, for idle discussions or simply for the sake of spending time in another person's company even if they weren't speaking.

So Grantaire took it as a relatively average night when he found himself in Enjolras room, seated on the end of the couch closest to the window. That was one habit that Grantaire could never shake, not after spending the amount of time he did with people who spoke in sign; everyone instinctually moved to the nearest possible spot to any given window, seeking good light by which to read signs, especially when evening hit in the hopes of sparing candlelight. That was one convenient thing about Enjolras being capable of speech and Grantaire being capable of hearing: Enjolras could sit on the other end of the couch, in the more shadowed part of the room, without impairing the conversation. Grantaire wasn't sure he would have been able to stand having Enjolras pressed against him so that they were both illuminated by the streetlamp outside the window.

_I love your voice,_ he signed impulsively as Enjolras read aloud a section of the essay he was editing. It seemed ridiculous once he had, but he didn't know how better to summarize the everything that was Enjolras. Because he meant not only his voice, the one he had been so envious over when they had first met, but also the conviction it cared. The nuances that filled it were entirely _Enjolras_ , the beautiful ideals it carried and the way it could make you desperately want to believe in what he said; Grantaire loved the way it could go from terrifying in arguments, to charming, to gentle, the way it embodied all that was Enjolras and how Grantaire was permitted to sit in its presence and soak it up. And, in the dim, intimate setting of the room, the need to admit to such feelings had welled up inside Grantaire until they had forced themselves out from his fingertips. _You could lead an army with your words alone,_ he added.

“I thought you didn't believe in our ability to amass an army?” said Enjolras, though he looked amused.

_I don't_ , replied Grantaire honestly. And then, because apparently this would be another evening of honesty, and because Enjolras had never once scorned him when he revealed more than he normally dared: _But I do believe in you._

But perhaps this was too much because Enjolras turned away then, looking uncomfortable. “Tell me what you think of this now,” he said, turning back to the essay and the paragraph he had been abusing.

And if Enjolras was happy to disregard that rash sentimentality, then so was Grantaire. He critiqued Enjolras' words with wild abandon, with bold gestures and expressions bent on being ridiculous and distracting from the moment previous.

Clearly not distracting enough though, because suddenly Enjolras met his eye and said “I love your voice too.”

At first Grantaire assumed Enjolras was teasing him but there was nothing but sincerity in Enjolras' face, only passionate fire in his voice, and again Grantaire was burnt straight to his core by the force of it. He didn't know how to respond; no one had said anything like that to him before, for obvious reasons. He had no voice to offer. But Enjolras, as was his wont, clearly saw something everyone else, Grantaire included, was overlooking.

And then Enjolras was sliding across the couch, his leg so close to Grantaire that they may as well have been touching, and no, wait, this was what had been in Grantaire's head, it was _not_ suppose to be happening this moment, now, in real life. It was completely inconceivable but Enjolras didn't seem troubled by the fact that he was denying the laws of all sanity, and the warmth that radiated from Enjolras' thigh was too real to deny, even by a skeptic of everything like Grantaire. Seemingly untroubled by the hubris he was causing, Enjolras simply pressed his hand into Grantaire's.

Little finger and pointer raised, middle and ring curled into the palm, thumb extended and, it should be noted, tenderly brushing against Grantaire's bare wrist, making his nerves spark and brain splutter out like an overextended candle. But as he stared from Enjolras face, again blinding in its intensity, to the hand that was curled so meaningfully (but so wrongly, surely confused for another sign, any other sign) in his hand, Enjolras must have finally grown impatient because he was moving again, his free hand cupping Grantaire's cheek. Then his head bowed forwards and their lips met and it was like a relief, like a great tension had been allowed to recoil all at once; Grantaire pressed back and instead of seeming impossible as it had only moments ago it suddenly seemed so natural that Enjolras knew and understood this as well.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Author Notes for those who are interested:
> 
> I am in no way d/Deaf or mute, and I don't speak any sort of sign language (never mind French sign language from the 19th century) so take everything in here related to that with a grain of salt! I'm relying on the internet pretty heavily here. And if you notice any glaring errors, feel free to let me know, I really don't want to inadvertently offend anyone here.
> 
> First and foremost: the pun that Joly noticed. Who figured it out? Anyone? Who's here wasting time in the notes specifically to figure out what the FUCK I'm talking about there? Well, you are not missing much – I am not a clever person but I try for Grantaire's sake. To explain for anyone still wondering, a “Monsieur Loyal” is the French equivalent of a ringmaster. Meanwhile the name Foucault is pronounced (uh, rather loosely, but cut me some slack) like “faux cul”, a French expression meaning two-faced. So, if you had a mind to read it that way, he was basically saying that the lying ass is Mr Loyal. Uh, yeah, so there's that. I needed something for these two to bond over and I figured shitty puns were the way to go but how do pun...?
> 
> Now, I'm pretty sure most of the signs in this story are explained pretty explicitly in text, so I'm only going to mention the ones that have some more information worth attaching:  
> \- Grantaire signs his name as an R (pointer and middle finger twisted together) held against his cheek. This is called a name-sign. How it works is that rather than spelling out one's entire name every single time, a single sign is given to the person instead that in some way represents them. (Note: a name-sign, at least in a modern context I have no idea what was happening in the 1800s, can only be given by someone is culturally Deaf, preferably someone aware of the local Deaf community and who knows that that name-sign won't conflict with others already in use and is grammatically correct. As I said, I am not and have NO idea if the name-signs make sense, so again, please, let me know if they're cringe-worthy.) Grantaire uses what is called an arbitrary name-sign, meaning that it's a letter held against some random part of the body and doesn't describe him in any way; normally it would use the first letter of a person's name (G, in Grantaire's case), but since he signed every note he wrote with an R that got used instead. (I think I might explain my reasoning there more in Speak To Me.)  
> \- Um, I had a lot of trouble with Enjolras' name-sign (descriptive name-signs confuse me a lot???), so really really don't take this too seriously. His is done with the palm facing out and the fingers sort of rolling in a twinkling motion, and the pointer of the opposite hand held against the wrist, the sign for sparkle (I think) while being motioned along the side of his head. Unlike Grantaire's name-sign, Enjolras' has been given a descriptive name sign, meaning that it describes an aspect about him that stands out in some way (it can be a physical feature, a personality quirk, related to a job, or whatever) -- um, obviously R has mentioned Enjolras' glorious hair... once or twice... around his friends, who attached that name to him.  
> \- The reason Enjolras has an “accent” by not lowering his brow when he asks “Is this better?” is because lowering your eyebrows indicates a yes or no question which is what E was attempting to ask.  
> \- The sign that Enjolras puts in Grantaire's hand when they're alone is the classic “I love you” sign, which is happily the same in LSF as in ASL: thumb, pointer, and little fingers all pointing out with the middle and ring fingers curled.
> 
> Aaand, if you want any more background information about Parisian Deaf culture in the 1800s, I gave some more info in the notes of Speak To Me, which just kind of explains the context that R was living in.


End file.
